Hooked (15 page)

Customers milled around the tackle section. Bamboo rods stood in straight rows against the green felt
of their wall rack. Fly reels had been strategically placed like checkers in an open case. But the center of attention was the glass-topped teakwood case that held thousands of flies.

One of those in the discussion was Ham Beauregarde who, upon Gage's entrance, looked up. Gage gave him a forced, friendly wave. Granted, Ham had been an asset. He'd told Gage what type of fish Wayne Brooks had caught. But beyond that, Ham Beauregarde could prove to be a nuisance. He liked to talk too much.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Gage turned toward the welcoming voice, apparently the owner. He sat on a stool by the cash box snacking on a tin of candied walnuts. His hair needed a cut, yet it didn't look all that bad on him; he was wide enough in the shoulders to have played college football and clobbered quite a few opposing team members.

“I need a new rod.” Gage glanced at the broken pole in his hand.

A good fly-fisherman wouldn't have busted the most important piece of his tackle, not to mention his leader and tippet. The
New American Fly-Fishing Manifesto
chapter on casting said to anticipate the fish's behavior on the end of your line before you even threw it out. Easier said than done.

He didn't think like a stinking trout.

The damn fish had taken the hook and run with it. Hard and fast into the brush. The weight of it put a snap into his rod as he pulled.

“Spring weeds can do that to you,” the man said as he set his walnut tin on the counter.

Gage appreciated the lack of censure. Though his
lightened spirits were short-lived as Ham ambled over with an all-knowing look on his puss.

“A smart fisherman never holds his rod high on a hard run,” Ham spouted as if he were a first-class expert on the subject. “He aims it low and to the side, even points the tip underwater to keep his leader underneath the bush.”

“That doesn't always work in heavy weeds,” the owner offered.

“Well, Wolcott, I suppose you've got a small point.”

Wolcott stood, took the rod from Gage, and laid the broken lengths on the counter as if he were going to assemble it. “Here's your problem. Whoever sold you this rod sold you the wrong one. You're not getting the right balance. This rod was meant for a shorter man than you.”

In his mind's eye, Gage saw Wilberforce standing in the jail cell next to his—Gage being a good head taller.

Bringing his fingers to his chin, Ham stroked his clean-shaven jaw. He may have come across as a blow-hard suitcase man, but he wasn't stupid. “It seems implausible to me that you'd be lame enough to buy the wrong rod.”

Wolcott broke in. “Some salesmen will sell you anything just to make a sale.”

“Speaking of salesmen.” Ham stared at Gage. “You never did tell me about your territory. The other night you distracted me with fly-fishing politics. We're not at the party anymore so there's no reason not to talk business. Just how big is your territory?”

“Small,” Gage offered, then to Wolcott he went on, “As to the fishing, what kind of a rod do you recommend,
sir? By thunder,” he slapped his palm on the countertop, “I fear I've been the victim of unfair selling practices.”

The owner paused, sized up Gage, then explained, “It depends on how a rod feels to you. The same one will feel different to me. So you have to be comfortable with its length and balance providing its right for you. I'll help you find the right rod. You want split bamboo, lancewood, or jointed steel?”

“Split bamboo.”

“Good choice.”

Leaving Ham behind, it took Gage and Wolcott a solid half hour to outfit him with the right equipment. Gage had had to try out a half a dozen Genesse rods by imitating the action of casting and forcing the point forward. Unlike Wilberforce's broken pole, the Genesse Gage selected sprang rapidly back to a straight line, and without a vibration.

Back at the cash box, Ham still hovered around like a pesky mayfly as Gage reached for his billfold. He moved in so close, Gage could have ground his heel in the man's scuffed shoe toe.

“So, just how small is small, Vernon?”

Ham evidently judged a salesman's selling prowess by the size of his territory. Gage didn't want to deflate Ham's ego and agitate him into a verbal debate. He had no idea if salesmen could check up on each other's areas. “Just Montana and the western side of North Dakota.”

Ham laughed, with a snort that sounded like water gurgling down a drain. “Well, Vernon, then you've got it easy. My territory runs east of the Missouri and west of the Cascades.”

Paying for his rod and stowing it in the new case
he'd bought, Gage grasped the handle and said his thanks to Wolcott. Then to Ham, “Been a pleasure to see you again, Ham. The best of luck to you in the contest.”

“Oh, I don't need any luck. I've got pure skill. And that prize money nearly spent.”

“It isn't over until it's over,” Gage said, unable to help himself.

On that, he left the sporting goods store glad to be out in the fresh air.

Beauregarde had turned out to be a flea weevil—an annoying itch just out of Gage's reach. Now Gage wanted to win that damn contest just to rub Ham's face in his loss. But at the rate Gage was learning how to whip a line, he'd be dead last.

There was a whole lot more to fly-fishing than could be learned from a book. It was one thing to read about it; another entirely to actually do it. A lot depended on a sixth sense. An inner clock of timing and speculation and cunning, kind of like chess. You had to read your opponent before, during, and after he made his move. Your countermove depended on what he did and what he would now do.

Trout were sharp strategists—they'd encountered flies before and they knew when to bite and when not to. Gage didn't know when they were on the end of his line and when they weren't. It was solely trial and error. More error and cursing than anything else.

The simple truth was, he wasn't going to learn how to fish out of a book, not in two weeks anyway, and he had a broken rod to prove it.

He'd gone over to Waverly the morning after Meg's April Fool's party and had spoken with the hatchery
owner, Leroy Doolin, under the guise of starting up his own trout farm in Oregon.

Gage had taken notes on everything but the most important piece of information he'd gleaned was that nobody using the name of Wayne Brooks had bought brown trout last year.

He hadn't expected Wayne to use his real name. And asking after him had had to be done in a roundabout way. Gage had said he'd been thinking about going partners with a man named Brooks, but Brooks had decided to go it on his own. Doolin swore he didn't know Wayne Brooks.

Going a step farther, Gage had inquired after Doolin's larger orders last year. Doolin said he rarely did big order business with the public. His dealings were with private sectors and the government, most of the time.

Gage had nodded his thanks, then mounted the horse he'd gotten from Hess's livery and rode off. No wiser than he'd been when he'd arrived.

As he walked up Birch Avenue, Gage allowed himself the small luxury of thinking about Meg Brooks and himself.

She chased daydreams.

He chased rats.

Would there ever come a time he could look at the world and see things without them being woven between possible investigations? If ever there was a woman who could make a believer out of Matthew Gage, it was Meg Brooks.

While walking back to the hotel, Gage imagined what might have been if he'd met her under different circumstances.

*  *  *

Meg practically ran down Sugar Maple, the town's main street. It wasn't the proper thing to do—bound across a sidewalk with one's petticoat ruffles kicking up an awful fuss with one's hasty steps. There was a time and place for exceptions and this was one of them: She had to get home without anybody seeing her. Or worse yet, without anyone stopping her.

She pressed her newly purchased parcel so tightly against her breasts that what little she had in the bosom could very well be concave by the time she secreted her way to her bedroom.

The corner of Birch Avenue was steps away and she breathed a sigh of relief. But her optimistic cloud rained right through its silver lining the second she slammed shoulder-to-shoulder with Mr. Wilberforce.

“Miss Brooks!”

He held out his arms to steady her and the package slipped from her grasp. She made a grab for it and missed.

The brown-wrapped item landed next to Mr. Wilberforce's right shoe. He could step on it and break the jar. Then what would she do? She couldn't buy another one for a whole week. Mr. Plunkett only left the store for ten minutes every Friday to go to the bank and make the weekly deposit. During that time, Hildegarde was in charge. Meg could
never
buy what she'd just bought from Mr. Plunkett. Thank heavens Hildegarde had double-wrapped the jar.

Meg's chin shot up. “I . . . ah, Mr. Wilberforce. I didn't see you.”

“Apparently not. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Home.” Her voice sounded squeaky to her, high-pitched
and tinged with so much worry, she felt like she could just keel over and die.

“Is there a problem, Miss Brooks?”

If she scooted forward and bent her knees a little, her skirt hem could cover the package.

“No. There's no problem.” She crept her way toward him, and in turn, steered him backward.

Mr. Wilberforce's dark brows slanted down. “Miss Brooks, are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fit as a fiddle,” she replied, stepping closer.

However, her plan came to a standstill as she gazed into his face, thoughts of the jar momentarily forgotten. Her murmur of “Hello” sounded shallow even to her.

“Hello,” he replied back in a monotone, his eyes glinting like shards of green stones.

Crowding him wasn't working. Physical force was her only option. She laid the palm of her hand on his suit shoulder and gave the hard slab of muscle a slight nudge. He didn't budge an inch. A frown marred her lips.

Having no other choice, with a pull of breath and the strength of sheer will, she shoved him with one hand. Fairly hard.

If he moved even a hair, she didn't see it.

A blanket of impending doom fell heavily on her spirits as her eyes fell to the dreaded parcel, which was right out in the open. The wrapping paper might as well have been as red as the Fire Department's No. 1 engine. The only thing left to do was to bend down and get the dreaded thing and . . . and lie like a rug if he asked her what was in it.

But before she could snatch it, Mr. Wilberforce leaned over and picked the package up.

“Is this what you're after?”

Meg's mouth went dry as burned toast as he examined the string-tied, brown paper-wrapped parcel by turning it over in his large hand. He certainly couldn't tell what was in there. It was pure fear of discovery making her so sensitive about . . .
it
.

Mr. Wilberforce lifted his gaze to hers. “Did I step on this?”

“No,” she shot back quickly and thrust her hand out so fast she'd robbed him blind in the blink of an eye. This was, after all, her package and she couldn't keep a clear thought in her head with him touching it.

Meg felt perspiration bead on her upper lip and the afternoon wasn't even a hot one, mild at best. A lady must never lose her composure. But she was failing quite miserably.

The package now safely in her custody and clutched with a possessive grip by her gloved hands, Meg tried to regain her dignity. That is until she noticed a small tear in the paper. Could Mr. Wilberforce see anything?

“I'm glad I ran into you, Miss Brooks.” Then he chuckled. “Not figuratively speaking. I know you like Rosemarie's Tearoom, but would you consider an ice cream at Durbin's with me?”

An ice cream?
She'd thought her ice cream parlor days were over. Even though she sometimes longed for a vanilla fizz, she'd forsaken them to be respectable and drink dishwater-tasting tea.

He was asking her to join him. How could she say no? How could she say yes? She had
the package
with her.

“I'd be delighted, Mr. Wilberforce. Just let me drop off something at the hotel, then I can—” She'd barely
taken a step toward the hotel's porch when she heard her name called out as if she were a street vendor.

“Hello, Margaret!” came Harold Adams holler from the opposite side of the street. To her dismay, he crossed and headed directly for them.

“Never mind about the hotel,” Meg said, linking her arm through Mr. Wilberforce's and steering him in the opposite direction. “Let's go right now.”

Unfortunately, Harold Adam's Apple caught up to them. “Margaret, didn't you hear me?”

“Hmm, no,” she replied, keeping her steps swift.

“How are your headaches, Margaret?”

She wasn't enthusiastic to answer in front of Mr. Wilberforce; he would think she was sickly. “They're fine now.”

Mr. Wilberforce turned toward her. “You've been having headaches, Miss Brooks?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“But you've had a sick headache every night for nearly a week,” Harold said. “Your butler told me so.”

“Yes, he's such a dear. I'll sorely miss him when he goes back to Des Moines with my grandmother. He's been in her employ for years.”

Little did Harold know, Mr. Finch had been staying in the hotel looking for work when Grandma Nettie asked him if he'd like employment at their house.

Suddenly, Mr. Wilberforce stopped walking, Meg coming to a halt with him. “Is there something else, Mr. Adams, or are you going to keep making a nuisance of yourself?”

Meg's eyes widened.

Harold Adam's apple bobbed, and he wasn't even saying anything.